


A Truce Is Born, an Inner Circle Kid Fic

by noodlecatposts



Series: Inner Circle Kid Fics! [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Kid Fic, Snow, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21834751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: The Inner Circle spends a day in the snow with the kids.
Relationships: Amren/Varian (ACoTaR), Elain Archeron/Azriel, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Morrigan/Rita, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Series: Inner Circle Kid Fics! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573252
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	A Truce Is Born, an Inner Circle Kid Fic

**Author's Note:**

> This is written in the same universe as the Elriel kid Christmas short. I love a good, cute kid fic, and I kept having this image of a bundled up Larkspur charging out the door for some fun in the snow. SO, here we are!

“SNOWBALL FIGHT!” Larkspur cries, blasting her way out the double doors of Feyre and Rhys’s home. The young girl peels away from the group without warning, earning more than a few chuckles from the adults following after her. Azriel’s lips curve with fondness.

Clementine squeals from her place in his arms, delighted by the turn of events; the sound is ear-splitting joy, and Azriel laughs openly, trying to shush the babe in his arms at the same time. Cassian shoots him a toothy grin.

“To think that you’d be the one of us blessed with such boisterous children,” Azriel’s brother teases. Rhys barks a laugh, agreeing.

“Well, I suppose there’s always Ash. He’s a moody thing—reminds me a lot of you, actually Az,” Rhys jumps on board with the teasing. Azriel’s brothers laugh, and Clementine squeals again, turning traitor against her own father.

Azriel would brood, but just in the nick of time, his wife appears, summoned by the excited squeals coming from their youngest. Elain flicks Cassian on the ear without a word, shoots Rhys his own silent reprimand. Then she turns to her partner in crime with a smile. She always has Azriel’s back.

“I found her hat,” is what Elain says, procuring a fluffy cap and tugging it down onto Clementine’s brass-colored hair. The little girl gurgles at her mother, promptly tugs the hat off, and tosses it to the ground.

Elain looks perturbed. Ever since Clem learned the art of grabbing things, all bets have been off. Clementine’s mother loves to dress her in cute outfits, tie bows into her hair; Elain’s youngest will have none of it now, always yanking things out of her hair, tugging at the lace on her dresses.

Azriel chuckles, swiping the hat of the snow and finding it damp. He gives it back to his wife; it’s of no use to Clementine now.

“I’ll be right back,” the female says with such vindication that none of the males on the porch would ever dare second guess her. Elain disappears back inside, likely in search of something else to keep her daughter’s head safe and warm.

“Did someone say something about a snowball fight?” Feyre asks, eyes alight with amusement. Brendan and Gavin dart past where she stands in the doorway, nearly knocking her over.

“Gav! You and your cousin ought to try _not_ to plow over the High Lady, eh?” Cassian calls after Gavin. Both boys turned apologetically to Feyre, mumble sorry. Azriel thinks it’s strange to see Cassian in such a role, a scolding parent; the Shadowsinger can still remember chasing the brute all over Adriata, drunk and chasing a pretty female.

Sometimes, Azriel still stops and thinks: _this guy is a father?_

Feyre waves them off without a scolding, the soft-hearted parent, and comes out into the snow, tucking herself under Rhys’s arm. The High Lord wraps his mate into his arms happily, draping a wing around her to keep her warm.

Brendan, forever the little leader, declares, “Five minutes for prep!”

Morrigan arrives on the patio next, clutching to the newest member of the Inner Circle. Wyn is the type of babe that looks perpetually confused, overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds that the world has to offer. Today is no different. Mor leans close to the rails, showing the child the snow that has gathered there. His mouth drops open in bewilderment.

“What’s that?” Mor asks, voice filled with mock wonder. “Do you want to touch it?”

Wyn curls closer into Mor, a declination if there ever was one. The female _aw’s_ at his reaction, snuggling him closer still.

“I’d say that’s a no,” Rita grins, placing a hand on her girlfriend’s back as she draws near. “You don’t like the snow, do you, little guy? Me, _either_.”

Mor laughs happily, rolling her eyes. The merits of snow are a point of great contention between the new couple. They’re learning to work with their differences, still coming down from that feverish high of a new relationship. Azriel thinks they’ll make it. He’s glad for them.

“What’s going on?” A small voice asks, the last of the children to arrive. Eira looks wary of finding all of the adults in one place; the young girl has a knack for interrupting severe conversations with her quiet disposition.

Elain returns with Nesta then. The eldest Archeron holds a hat for Clementine, and she slips it onto her niece’s head, taps her nose. Motherhood has softened her hardened spirit, sort of. Clementine squawks a protest, reaches for the new hat immediately; Azriel begins to battle his youngest, tugging the hat down every inch that Clem pulls it up.

Meanwhile, Elain places a hand onto Eira’s shoulder, smiling softly at her. Azriel’s wife found a kindred spirit in her sweet, quiet-spoken niece; he sees them often together, tending to the gardens. More than once, Azriel’s found Eira at his home, doing chores alongside his wife, much to Feyre and Rhys’s confused amusement.

“Your brother and your cousins are getting ready to have a snowball fight,” Elain tells her softly. “You should go and join them. Have some fun.”

Eira looks perplexed, brow wrinkled. “What’s that?”

The adults all look to each other in surprise. Surely, Eira has participated in a snowball fight before, right?

Yet, Azriel recalls the year before, how Eira chose to stay inside and make cookies with her Aunt Elain. The party was on a particularly blustering cold day; Eira, three at the time, could not be persuaded to come outside. She doesn’t like the cold, generally.

Rhys sweeps to the rescue, kneeling before his little girl. Eira studies his words carefully, lips pursed in concentration. “You make balls out of the snow, darling.” He tells her, forming a snowball from the flurries on the ground, holds it up to her. “Then, you just—throw them at each other.”

Everyone watches the gears turn in Eira’s head as she processes the explanation. Larkspur screeches something borderline profane in the background, and Elain leaves Azriel’s side to chastise her. _Larkspur! Where in Prythian did you learn to talk like that?_

“Okay,” Eira tells her father, nodding once. She sounds deeply concerned about the prospect but determined. Rhys smiles softly at her, hands her the snowball, and nudges her forward into the yard. She glances back nervously at her mother, looking for reassurance.

“Kick their butts, E!” Feyre encourages. Her daughter’s face contorts into horror at the prospect, dropping her ball of snow in surprise. The adults chuckle softly at her, trying their best to hide it—Eira embarrasses easily. The little girl looks back to the other children, who’ve nearly finished their preparations. It’s undoubtedly been more than five minutes, but no one is going to tell the kids that.

“Go on,” Elain encourages her niece. “It’s fun.”

Eira swallows once but is consoled by Elain; she trusts her aunt’s judgment implicitly.

The adults all watch as Eira trudges through the snow, wings tucked in tight and looking lost. Larkspur, the radical, launches a snowball in her cousin’s direction, and Eira yelps in surprise when it lands at her feet. Gavin pops up over their dilapidated wall, winding back his arm to follow with his own attack. A one-two punch.

But Brendan comes to the aid of his sister, shooting Cassian’s son in the face with snow lightning fast. He waves to his sister and urges her to run to his side.

“Eira! This way!” He throws another ball at Lark and Gavin, but their wall takes the hit, loses a corner. “Quickly, E!”

Eira darts for the cover of Brendan’s barricade; it’s meticulously built, made to look beautiful, and to last. She slips behind the wall, begins watching her older brother work with awe. Brendan hands her a snowball; she looks at it in wonder.

Snowballs begin to rain down upon the war ground then, coming not from either duo’s direction. Azriel follows their trajectory, looking for the source of the attack. Lark takes off running, abandoning Gavin as their wall crumples; she hides behind the hedges.

“Well?” Nesta’s voice is icier than the waters of the Sidra, as she turns those stormy eyes upon her mate. “Are you going to aid our only child, General? Or are you going to leave him at the mercy of that surly one?”

Azriel’s eyes drift over to the aforementioned _surly one_. Ash has worked diligently, alone, to create his snow barricade. A fortress, to be more exact. Brow furrowed and mouth in a grim line, Azriel’s son has created something worthy of a siege. Which, perhaps, is what he is preparing for.

Azriel hadn’t even seen him appear, likely using that little bit of magic inherited from his father to slip out of the house unnoticed. Ash prefers it that way, to get around without notice, without being paid any attention. Azriel’s son knows how to work it to his advantage, staying out of sight while the other children battled amongst themselves.

So many fae children in one yard has created a different type of snowball fight from what Azriel and his brothers played. As the children grow older and craftier, the game has escalated. Five children are enough to form teams, create an all-out snow war. No more one on one on one.

Clementine coos from his arms, chewing on her fist and content to snuggle with dad. Azriel glances over to where Wyn tugs on Morrigan’s hair, oblivious to anything other than his aunt’s golden locks. Soon there’d be seven up and running the place. They’re quickly growing outnumbered.

“My money is on Lark,” Cassian declares, ignoring his wife’s plea for aid. Azriel and his brothers have plans to go up to the cabin in a few days; they'll have a snowball fight of their own. Today, they observe. Cassian is likely taking notes, will debrief the kids on their tactics later.

“You’d bet against your only son?” Feyre questions, eyes sparkling.

“Uh, yeah. Have you seen that little blonde tornado?” Cassian gestures towards Azriel’s daughter. Larkspur is creating snowballs with tenacity, even as her crumpled snow wall, sags in the morning sun. Gavin works quickly on repairs beside her. “She’s unstoppable.”

Azriel and Elain share a proud smile. It doesn’t falter, even as the girl smashes one of the snowballs over her own head, cackling with delight. Her partner, Gavin, howls at her actions, throws his head thrown back and smiles wide; Azriel finds it unnerving how much the boy sounds like his father.

“My money is on Ash,” Azriel says, watching the boy over in the corner.

“Definitely, Ash,” His wife agrees. Elain leans her head on his shoulder, ruffling the tufts of brown hair on the top of Clem’s head. She’s chucked the newest hat somewhere when they weren’t paying attention.

“Fifty says that Eira talks everyone into a peace treaty,” Mor quips. She holds Wyn out to her eye level. “That sister of yours will be a master negotiator when she grows up,” she coos to Wyn.

He stares back at Mor with wide, blue-gray eyes; his dark brown hair sticks up at a peculiar angle, unruly. Feyre is always trying to smooth the locks into some semblance of order, but they persist.

“A hundred says Brendan goes down first,” Feyre quips, watching her eldest as he tries to convince Eira that a snowball fight _is all in good fun_. Eira’s vast ocean blue eyes look concerned at all the action around her; Brendan hands her a new snowball, but the little girl holds the thing at arm’s length, suspicious of it.

“Hey, don’t pick on my boy!” Rhys defends, flicking at Feyre’s nose. She giggles when Brendan trips over his feet, tumbling into the soft snow. Eira chucks the ball into the snow, unwilling to throw it at Lark as Brendan directed. Eira will never be the one to take a shot.

“Well, you’ve still got Wyn, Rhys,” Elain tells the High Lord. Rhys sighs, reaching for the youngest of the group. Wyn cries at being forced to leave Morrigan’s side, only quiets once his father relents.

“Or not,” Elain chirps. Azriel has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. The rest of the group is not so merciful.

“You’re missing Wyn’s favorite assets,” Mor wiggles her brows suggestively.

“It’s true,” Feyre giggles. “He’s a boob guy, just like his dad.”

Rhys groans. “Is it pick on the High Lord Day? Did I miss the memo?”

“I’ve noticed its always that day. At least with this group,” Varian muses, entering from the side yard with a smile. He gives Rhys a sympathetic look, nods in greeting. “It’s much the same back home.”

“Varian!” Feyre greets the male with a smile, “I didn’t know you were in Velaris.”

“I got here this morning,” Varian rubs his gloved hands together. He’s not built for a northern winter; Azriel takes in his fluffy coat and boots, hat atop his head. Maybe Amren should visit Adriata for a while.

“Where’s the short one?” Cassian asks, looking around for Amren.

Varian grins, nods in the direction of the battlefield. Azriel and the family scan the yard, looking for Amren, but the drake is nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll be damned,” Rhys looks awed. Azriel follows the High Lord’s gaze back to where Ash’s snow fortress stands. He spots the tops of two darks heads peeking out from behind the wall. Gasps echo when Amren’s pops out of the fort, sending a snowball in Gavin’s direction with deadly accuracy. The little Illyrian yelps, looking around confused.

“Does that count as cheating?” Morrigan asks with a look.

“Well, she certainly fits the height requirements,” Elain muses aloud.

Cassian bursts into laughter, tears springing at the corners of his eyes. Azriel’s smile is so big that it hurts his face; he tugs his wife closer to him, brushes a kiss to her lips. Neither of them is particularly prone to public affection, but every now and again, it’s necessary. Azriel likes that, even after all this time, Elain still flushes from a quick kiss.

“Lark!” Gavin cries out to his cousin. He points in the direction of the snow fort; it seems Ash is no longer able to hide in plain sight. The other children have located him.

Larkspur lets out a battle cry, chasing after the older boy with an arm full of snow. Gavin takes one of the balls from her, tries to throw it up and over the walls, but it misses, tumbles to the ground.

Ash pops out next, aims for Lark’s arms, and her stash of weapons. His aim is as accurate as Amren’s, and Ash’s sister drops the snowballs, losing them. She cries out in dismay, begins to create more; Gavin is at her side, shortly to aid her.

Amren tosses another snowball over the wall, hits the heir of the Night Court. Brendan gasps in surprise, twirling to investigate; he spies Amren within the fort, glares. He runs to join his cousins.

“Sure, you don’t want to reconsider your bets?” Feyre teases Azriel and Elain, watching as everyone turns against Amren and Ash. They’re outnumbered; they stand no chance.

Azriel watches as Eira marches towards them, weaponless; the little girl wears the sternest expression he’s ever seen. Mor cheers. _Yes!_

“Stop!” The little girl shots, holding her hands out in supplication. She stands between both sides of the battle, determined, but her closely-held wings betray her nervousness. Bright eyes wait for the counterattack; there’s snow speckled in Eira’s hair.

Yet, all attacks cease; no one wants to hit fierce little Eira, not in cold blood.

“Well, I suppose this means Mor is buying dinner,” Rita laughs, looking to her girlfriend with pride.

Morrigan beams and the rest of the family laugh.

“That’s my girl!” Feyre laughs brightly, smiling in her daughter’s direction. Eira is giving the group a stern talking to; well, as stern a talking to as the soft-spoken child is capable of. Brendan watches his sister with fondness, but Lark and Gavin pout at the chastisement.

Amren and Ash share a look, communicating silently. Azriel thinks he’s the only one that notices the duo slip away, unwilling to sit through a lecture, but then he meets Varian’s eye, sees the smirk on the male’s face. So, Azriel wasn’t the only one that noticed their escape.

Eventually, a truce is born, and no one is more pleased than Eira to see the fighting come to an end. As the daylight fades, the family trudges its way indoors, spends the evening basking in the warmth of the fire, and sharing happy smiles.

Eira’s first title is coined that day, with fond smiles and kisses to the top of her head: The Peaceful.


End file.
